


Dispersed

by beneaththeskin



Series: Crimson Fog [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gore, I'm hoping the care and gentleness make up for the heavy topic, M/M, POV First Person, POV Oikawa Tooru, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Second-Hand Trauma, Self-Harm, really trying to edge this towards healing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25433515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beneaththeskin/pseuds/beneaththeskin
Summary: Continuation to 'disintegrated'. Suga has been rescued from human trafficking. As you can probably guess, he's not doing too good. But people around him give their best to help.Please be careful when reading if you are sensitive to descriptions of rape-related ptsd, self-harm and injuries.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi, background Tsukishima/Yamaguchi - Relationship
Series: Crimson Fog [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/814503
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Dispersed

**Author's Note:**

> So I just finished this at almost 3AM and haven't reread about the second half, so excuse me if there are grammar errors etc. As this is a continuation to a previous work, you can read it to understand Oikawa's viewpoint better (and his relationship with Iwa), but reading Disintegrated is not strictly necessary for this. Also, beware, and the prequel has real-time descriptions of non-con. This work does not.  
> I am planning to continue this sometime in the future.  
> I hope you are safe reading this, and can perhaps find some comfort in it.

I wake to the white noise of my dream bleeding into the steady sound of raindrops on the window.

The back of my neck feels sickly cold against the sheen of sweat covering my skin, the heat of my face against the pillow. The compulsion to _get away_ and my these days’ inherent fatigue have a short-lived fight, neither really winning while I shimmy backwards to a colder spot on the fabric.

As a measure of sick self-torture I try to recall the dream. Not much resurfaces besides a few images and a very vivid feeling of skin against my tongue.

_Easy there now, gag reflex._

I swallow my disgust back with difficulty, taking a deep breath and examining the shadows of raindrops on the ceiling. Street lights cast them in an off-white hue, the coldness of the colour oddly satisfying at this particular moment.

I thank the dull pain around my temples for muddling my brain enough that I don’t bother to worry about falling asleep all that much.

So I just lay there, the blanket between my thighs, or I think I’m going to just lay there, if it wasn’t for my phone starting to buzz next to my pillow.

For a moment I just listen to the sound, until my brain connects that buzzing indicates a call, and calls are there to be answered, and the only one who even has my number is Iwa.

I’d scramble to answer, but I feel my movements are a level too sluggish to be called that.

“Yes?”

“Oikawa,” the voice sounds hurried and hoarse, “sorry, uh-,” he gets cut off by rustling in the background.

“What’s wrong?” I feel like my voice is smaller than I intend it to be.

There is no answer for a moment, and I feel the muscles in my neck tighten uncomfortably in alarm.

A slam and it gets quieter.

“Daichi got shot,” the voice is levelled, shallow breaths sounding through the speaker while I feel mine almost stop, “but we got um, Sugawara, out.”

It doesn’t quite register.

“There’s trouble, uh,” a thick gulp sounds through, “Daichi’s getting treated but we can’t have him-, I mean, Sugawara, be at a hospital.”

I try to force some oxygen into my lungs, the situation starting to piece together. “I understand.”

“I need your help.”

I continue lying down, that being my smartest choice of actions, phone still in my hand.

Iwa is alive. Whether he is well, I don’t know, but he’s alive. Daichi is alive. And so is Suga.

The name connected, albeit slower than it should have, considering that Daichi is on Iwa’s team. Last that I heard, Suga had been missing. If they cannot tell me about it, that’s all the more reason I can connect the details.

They’re working, or _were working_ , on his case as well. Which means he’s a victim of human trafficking. Possibly by the same godforsaken organization.

_I don’t want to imagine that. I do not want to imagine that. I may be wrong._

_I know I’m not wrong._

I ease myself up into a sitting position, hand carefully supporting the dressings on my abdomen, and look around the room.

Daichi must be getting treated at a facility of theirs, but Suga is a civilian, right? They can’t take a civilian to base. Do they not have the manpower to spare to have someone guard him at the hospital? Or is it more complicated than that?

Even this much thinking is vaguely starting to hurt my brain. Well if that doesn’t make me feel less intelligent than I already felt.

I’d think up something sassier than that but my phone buzzes again with a message from Iwa.

<< _open the door please? don’t be frightened by blonde in glasses, that’s our medic_ >>

Well if that isn’t cryptic. Though I guess _cryptic_ isn’t quite the word I’m looking for. My level of trust for Iwa isn’t something to take lightly, I guess.

I carefully stand and walk to the door to disengage its alarm and unlock it, pulling it open slightly and leaning on the doorframe. Behold, there is indeed a man matching the aforementioned description standing across the hallway.

Judging by him being here before the others and in sweats and completely dry – does he _live_ in this building?

He sure looks like he got dragged out of the pits of hell, though, judging by his very sour expression. Something tugs at my memories, looking at his frame, but I don’t get to dwell on it for long.

Uneven steps sound from the stairs below, revealing Iwa and an at least seemingly unconscious figure in his arms that only very vaguely resembles who I remember to be Suga.

The man is impossibly paler under what looks like dirt and blood, face covered by greasy silvery strands of hair, muddled water dripping from his clothes.

Grumpy Glasses is the first to break the silence with his more exasperated than grumpy voice.

“You’ll owe me.”

Iwa’s expression doesn’t change, eyebrows held tight in an I-don’t-take-shit manner. “It’s your job,” he calmly steps towards the door and offers me an apologetic almost-smile.

“It’s supposed to be my day off,” Grumpy Glasses sighs while pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and follows us surprisingly obediently. I just stand by as Iwa lowers the shallow-breathing figure onto the couch, kneeling next to him and looking at Grumpy Glasses expectantly.

“Alright,” another sigh as he sets his duffel bag of probably medical equipment on the floor, “so what can you tell me other than he’s not imminently dying?”

I can’t help but eye how the grime is already seeping into the fabric, it makes me want to stretch my joints.

Iwa reaches to wipe what looks like dirt off his forehead with the back of his hand, sighing heavily. “He’s completely unresponsive. But I don’t know if it’s drugs. Maybe just shock?”

Grumpy Glasses hums at that. “No knowledge of injuries?” he asks Iwa as he leans forward and flashes a light in dull eyes.

“He was more or less on his feet when we found him, so I think no broken bones, at least…”

The exchange continues while I start to fade into vague anxiety.

I can’t help but eye how Suga seems to squeeze more and more into himself against the back of the couch, hands wrapped tight over his stomach. He barely seems to be breathing. To my discomfort, it feels too familiar, the trying to steel through the attention when all you want is to meld into the surrounding materials until you’re in the void and kindly unexist.

Then maybe it won’t feel that horrible.

I can see it clearly, how he’s shrinking under apparent scrutiny even though nobody is actually touching him anymore. Even I can feel the dread from where I’m standing. Even I feel tense and stiff. I don’t really want to imagine what he must be feeling, but I can’t quite help it. I loosely shake my arms to try to relax out of it.

But wait.

My stomach drops sharply as I see the blonde taking Suga’s wrist, followed by an obvious jolt from the otherwise statue-looking man. He turns even more rigid, the hand now suspended in the air shivering almost imperceptibly, revealing an orb of black-red staining under it. There’s a sharp intake of breath as the blonde lifts the shirt.

Without thinking, I dart forward and grab the offending arm.

“Don’t.”

A moment passes and I can’t think of how to explain myself. I’m met with two disapproving faces, to my sharp discomfort. Although the blonde retracts his hands a fraction.

“You shouldn’t touch him. He’s barely able to breathe,” I force out the words, more properly than I thought I’d be able to. I’m willing my hand not to shiver around the blonde’s wrist. I don’t quite dare let it go yet, lest it go right back where it was.

“I’m being careful,” the blonde gives me a deep frown, voice calm and calculating. “How else am I supposed to treat him? He needs stitches,” he nods towards the gaping cut across his stomach.

I sigh and loosen my hold on his arm. “I don’t know.” We all observe the man, and I think they vaguely understand what I mean. “His mind looks way worse off than his body does,” I add quietly.

He looks dissociated, eyes blank and unseeing, nails digging into his arm.

“I wouldn’t make it worse.”

I hear a sigh from beside me, and I know the blonde isn’t quite satisfied, but nobody makes a move for now.

That is, until we notice Suga’s shallow breathing turning into haphazard hiccups of breath, and the nails digging into his arm leaving angry red marks on his skin.

The blonde swiftly shifts to lean forward but I stop him with a hand in front of his chest. He looks at me judgingly but I know Suga would crack if they tried to restrain him.

I open my mouth to call out his name but reconsider. You never know what he could’ve been called all this time. It might only make things worse.

I can only think of one thing that might bring him into focus. I try to keep my voice as gentle and calm as possible, leaning forward a bit but trying not to impose on his space.

“It’s okay. Daichi will be okay.”

Suga’s pupils ripple.

I tentatively continue.

“You’re safe. You’re out of there now.” I try to read his expression but there’s nothing there. I keep trying to reassure him nonetheless, trying to keep my voice even. “Nobody can hurt you now.”

His face changes.

I belatedly notice Iwa’s eyes studying us from behind the couch, stance more apprehensive than I would like, hands readied in an almost martial arts form. I want to tell him that he should approach panic situations with more care than this-

“Hahah!”

I’m sharply cut out of my reverie by a sneer that terrifies even me.

Suga’s mouth is open in a crackling grin. “No.”

Air seeps in through his clenched teeth.

“It’s all me.”

His voice grates with acid, bubbling with what I can only guess is self-contempt.

“I should have finished the job.”

Suddenly Suga claws at the slit in his stomach, a finger digging straight into the bleeding opening, and I can no longer object when Iwa and the blonde swiftly immobilize him, each holding an arm in a lock, Iwa from over the back of the couch.

In a sudden burst of strength, the falling angel pulls and struggles, trying to kick at them with his knees, a guttural cry cutting through the air. Blood runs from his fingers down his wrist.

I stagger backwards.

I’ve never seen such predatory eyes. Even _there_.

“Bag,” blonde turns towards me with a stern voice, gesturing toward the duffel bag he had brought.

I scramble to pull it closer to him, ignoring my injuries screaming at the movement. I move to open the zipper all the way before he can ask.

I watch in vague fear as the blonde dexterously digs out what looks like antiseptic and wipes down the bloodied arm. Then he reaches for a syringe with one hand and pulls the packet open with his teeth, taking a small container and holding it in his mouth to fill the syringe with its liquid. He hooks a leg over Suga’s thighs and pushes his other knee against his hip to restrain him further, locking the straining wrist between his elbow and side, pushing the air out of the syringe along with some of the liquid. The smoothness of the movement of the needle into the vein seems oddly out of place.

“Dump this,” he holds the syringe out to me. “It will take at least 15 minutes to take effect.” He turns to dig out his phone in its place, casually tapping out a text like at any regular work day, like he isn’t using full force to restrain someone with the rest of his body.

I comply, throwing the syringe in the trash in an almost-fugue, tentatively returning to the commotion. Suga is still intermittently screaming at us, shrill voice scraping at the insides of my ears.

“You have no right-, you have no right to decide for me-,” his voice breaks over the syllables, the following cry nothing but hissing breath.

I catch Iwa’s worried eyes, gesturing for me to back out into the kitchen corner while still restraining Suga’s arm. He mouths an ‘are you okay’, to which I hastily nod. The last thing I see is Suga’s venomous grin as blood flows onto his lap.

I slowly step out of view and sink down against a kitchen counter, closing my eyes and digging into my hair. I try to cancel out the screams and take deep breaths, sharply remembering my own screaming days.

Then, I would’ve gladly just died.

Hahah.

That makes half-pleasure dig at my insides.

Even now.

Even though I’m at a better place. Healing? I don’t know if I can call that healing.

Voices sound through the fog, screaming, then calmer, then screaming again.

It’s disgusting.

 _I’m_ disgusting.

I dig into my temple with the sole of my palm, rocking back and forth.

It’s stupid, it’s stupid, it’s stupid.

I’m better now. I’m better.

Better?

Images and sensations of offending genitals flood my mind at that, my neck tightening uncomfortably, reminding me how not-okay I should be. Tension drains from my face. It makes me want to scrape out my guts, which sharply cuts back to how Suga must be feeling right now. I can’t blame him.

But then again I feel like I’m looking at some other me. Not really ‘me’ me. Though my eyes are closed, but. Though none of it really makes sense. It’s all like a fever dream, only echoes of what should be my actual life. But then again I know that’s not really it.

Is it only real when I want to splay the walls with my insides?

Is it only then valid?

I grind my forehead into a floor tile, lacing my fingers behind my neck in an attempt to snap out of it, blood pooling into my head. It only half works.

I sway back and forth, until I’m jolted by a hand resting on my shoulder.

I draw in a sharp breath and straighten myself out, sitting up, schooling my expression into something more neutral. My vision blacks out for a moment from the sudden change. “Sorry,” I say automatically, squeezing my eyes shut and blinking.

Iwa offers me a half-smile, firmly rubbing down my shoulder blade.

I revel in the physical reassurance for a longer moment than I probably should. Even though I feel raw and exposed at it. I half want to escape.

“I’m sorry, are you feeling okay?” Iwa continues. “You can never really guess at someone’s mental state. It can change in a flash.”

I snort at that. “That might’ve entirely been my fault, so.” I continue with waving him off, “And it’s not like I haven’t seen worse. I’m fine.”

Iwa sighs at that, continuing to rub patterns into my back. I know he obviously sees I’m not doing too great.

“I just wasn’t having a great night to begin with,” I offer a thin-lipped smile. “Anyway, how is he doing now?” I belatedly notice the sounds have died down.

Iwa doesn’t quite look convinced, but continues. “Tsukishima managed to numb and stitch him, with some help.”

I nod slowly with a sour face. “I guess that’s good.” So that’s Grumpy Glasses’ name, huh. _Help?_

“He’s still conscious,” Iwa adds. “Calmer, though. I was asked to get him some water.”

I hum and pat at Iwa’s collarbone. “Go, go.”

I creakily rise up off the floor, too, with Iwa’s help so as not to strain my own injuries too much. Before I can turn, he stops me with a hug, softly burrowing into the crook of my neck. “If it becomes too much, tell me, and we’ll find some other solution for him.”

I breathe slowly for a moment, thinking. “No. He shouldn’t be alone.” I push at his chest to give him a strong-willed look. “I’m fine.”

Iwa fills a glass with water and I softly follow behind him, coming to a stop before the couch.

I was expecting it, but my stomach still drops at the sight.

Suga is surrounded with blood-covered pads and bandages, a large bandage circling his stomach, hands covered in bruises from the restraining. He looks resigned, eyes empty again, seemingly not looking at anything in particular.

He doesn’t even bother to direct his eyes at the water that’s been brought to him, muscles completely lax.

I’m not really surprised.

I notice there’s a new person in the room, a lanky guy, hair a strange mix of greenish gray and black, sticking up in the middle. He’s scrubbing what I’m guessing is Suga’s blood off his forearms with glove-covered hands. He’s whispering something to Grumpy Glasses who is eyeing his bloody shirt with discontent while gathering up the bloody pads.

Iwa turns to me before I can ask, “That’s another medic of ours”.

I hum at that.

Is this building like a spawn point for medics?

I stay leaning against the wall as Grumpy Glasses – Tsukishima – makes to leave, but not before instructing us on wound care and insisting we contact him again if needed. His apparent prior distaste for being wakened in the night seems to have dissipated. It makes me feel somewhat tender.

“And now let’s hope that wound doesn’t fester on us,” Tsukishima mutters under his breath to the other medic as they close the door behind them.

Suga appears to be completely drained, leant against the back of the couch with eyes half-shut, but I feel Iwa is just as reluctant about going to sleep and leaving him be as I am. Even though it’s fuck-AM.

I squeeze at Iwa’s bicep. “I don’t really feel like going back to sleep anyway. I’ll watch over him.”

Iwa draws in a breath, but is disrupted by a sluggish, grating voice from beside us.

“I’m not going to stab you in your sleep. If that’s what you’re implying.”

“That’s not-” I try to counter.

“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to, so,” he indicates to his barely movable hands with vague distaste, sliding down an inch against the couch.

I give a half-smile to Iwa, and move to sit at the edge of our bed to approach Suga’s line of vision, lowering myself down carefully, supporting the dressings on my stomach with my hand.

“We’ve both been stabbed a few times,” I sing-song with a noncommittal shrug, revealing badly-healed scars around my collarbone to him. “Not too afraid of that.”

Suga huffs a breath at that, and I can feel Iwa’s unhappy glare on the back of my neck.

“You’re also injured,” Suga eyes the hand I’m squeezing over my stomach.

“Meh,” I wave him off, “this from a couple weeks back.” I raise the hem of my shirt for him, revealing the dressings over my abdomen that are half-covered by my sweatpants. “I guess we match, huh,” I stick out my tongue.

Suga breathes out a laugh, looking vaguely exasperated.

I turn to take hold of Iwa’s wrist, rubbing at his palm, and he seems to relax a bit. He looks absolutely spent, though eyeing me worriedly. I pat at his hip and gently push him towards the bathroom. “Go take a shower. We’ll be fine.”

He looks at his grimy clothes, conceding soon after, grabbing some clean clothes from the cupboard by the bathroom door and disappearing with a small sigh.

I also feel a pressing need to wash off, as the patches of dirt that have transferred to my hands and clothes make me kind of uncomfortable.

Reminds me of how I could never quite get myself clean. _There_ , anyway _._ Mostly.

It’s sort of crawling under my skin, so I try to scrub at some patches on my arms, looking up at the ghost on our couch.

Suga’s frame is still as a statue, though I’m not sure the same could be said of his mind. I can’t tell. I wish I could help somehow, but I don’t know what to say. Or do.

_I shouldn’t touch him, right?_

I’m nobody to him, so there’s no reason for him to trust me, or want my compassion. Just me – well, us – existing in the same space doesn’t warrant any positive feelings towards us. Even if he can probably tell that we’re not out to hurt him.

Though my trying to find something comforting to say is cut short by a brief intake of breath.

“Why can’t I just… cease existing, without anyone getting further hurt?”

I want to groan but I’m mostly able to suppress my helplessness.

I’m quite surprised how neutral his voice sounds saying something so heavy.

‘Cause that hits hard.

“Look,” I try to steel my voice, as I feel a distinct lump forming in my throat. “Whatever you – misguidedly – think is your fault, it isn’t. I know that might be awful hard to understand.”

I can’t gauge any change in his expression, so it’s hard to understand if my words are getting through.

I sure hope they are.

“You didn’t choose to go through what you did,” I try to look for appropriate words, “which I can begin to imagine, perhaps, well, I don’t know. It might well have been worse for you.”

 _I really don’t want to imagine._ I try to shake any ill-formed images.

Suga turns his head slightly towards me.

I feel my heart rate pick up. I’m trying not to show it through my voice, as I’m getting angrier than I’d like--

“But, no matter what it was, no sane person would _ever_ hold you even _a little bit_ accountable for what’s happened to you.”

\--at those who _are_ accountable. But anger doesn’t help here, so I take a deep breath. It calms me a bit.

I can’t help but see myself in him. How much hate I had – well, still kinda have – towards myself. It hurts me to witness it in someone else.

“If it was someone else, would you?”

He sighs through his nose, looking to be biting into his lip, and I can’t help the tears that are starting to well up in my eyes.

“I mean, I know it’s _awful_ ,” I try to calm my breaths, “sometimes it-, it feels like yesterday, and like this, now, is the dream, and sometimes-”

I hear the shower suddenly stop, and instinctively lower my voice.

“Sometimes, it’s seems so far, like… I shouldn’t feel as bad as I… do.”

I kind of lose my train of thought, realizing Iwa might step in any second.

What should I say? This was probably not very comforting.

“Ah, yeah, sorry,” I huff. “I got out once, then kinda, back again, and now I’m here, so,” I try to finish quickly, also trying to get in a proper breath. “It’s still a bit raw, heh. Sorry.”

I know the expression I’m trying to conjure up must be quite a poor attempt at a smile.

I pat at my chest lightly, waving some air at my face, trying to school my face back into something more normal.

Iwa opens the door then, steps slow and soft, drying his hair with a towel. He eyes both of us, though he can’t see Suga’s face from there.

Speaking of, it’s like Suga is seeing right through me. My poor attempt at pretending nothing upset me in the meantime, probably.

Iwa comes closer, towel over his shoulders, and carefully sits next to me on the edge of the bed.

“You okay?” he reaches to gently squeeze my shoulder.

“Hm? Yeah,” I can’t help but avert my gaze, following his towel down to his abdomen. “Not worse than usual.”

He hums at that, caressing down my back, sighing lightly. He turns towards Suga who seems to be more-or-less looking in our general direction, body still lax. “How about you? Would you like some water? Or anything else?”

Suga seems to be biting the insides of his cheeks, looking down at the hands in his lap.

Iwa looks at me searchingly, and I give him a shrug.

“It would be good for him to get some hydration again, but…” I almost whisper.

I hold onto my abdomen as I move to stand, and reach forward to take the glass from in front of the couch. I lean closer and offer him the water, “Here, I can hold it for you if you’d like-”

“No! No, please,” he weakly pushes at my arm, hands faintly shivering, biting further into his cheek.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I realize this must be something triggering to him. “I won’t.” I withdraw my hands.

Has he been forced to drink things?

He’s still eyeing the glass though, so I still hold it vaguely close to him in case he might want to take it.

“I think,” his breathing is erratic, “I think-, I’m gonna be-,” he’s clutching at the neck of his shirt as he lurches forward slightly.

“Oh. Uh…” I reach behind myself for Iwa, who is up even before I can say anything, nodding.

Suga is now holding a hand over his mouth, curled forward onto his elbows, groaning in pain over the movement to his stomach.

He takes the bowl gratefully, leaning his face into it with pained gasps, intermittently spitting into it.

Iwa sits down next to me on the floor, exchanging a worried glance with me as Suga keeps gasping for air over the bowl, spitting after every couple of breaths.

His face looks very strained, eyebrows tight, coughing in between gasps. He seems to have a hard time holding himself over the bowl, arms shaking.

I grasp at Iwa’s thigh next to me, mouthing ‘what can we do?’. He looks just as worried as me, eyeing the front door as if considering calling the medics back. He carefully tries getting Suga’s attention.

“Hey, if there’s anything you need-”

“Uuh,” Suga huffs and spits, surprisingly reacting to the question, “this, putrid,” he spits again, groaning, “need to-, wash my mouth out-”

“You got it,” Iwa is moving to stand. “Water? Hmm, mouthwash?” he proposes.

“Uegh,” Suga groans, spit having stuck to his chin. “Mouthwash. Please-,” he gasps again.

I try with some ‘it’s okay’s as Iwa returns with the mouthwash, pouring some into the cap and placing it near Suga’s hand.

He struggles to lift it to his mouth, groaning through swishing the liquid around, holding it for a moment before spitting it back out and into the bowl. His strength seems to be close to giving out though, as his arms are barely support him anymore.

I stand to go get some paper towels from the kitchen, taking the bowl from between Suga’s shaking hands and placing some by his head. “Lie down please.”

He complies, almost falling over, cheek pressed into the couch.

His face still looks sour, and he moves to wipe some spit into a paper towel. His breathing is slightly more stable now, but still labored. He looks up at me, then Iwa, then down in front of himself, eyebrows still knit tight. “I’m sorry.”

“No reason to be sorry,” I automatically reply, trying to catch his gaze again, not quite succeeding. “I mean it. There’s nothing you should apologize for.”

Suga huffs, taking in a deeper breath as if to say something, but reconsidering.

“I don’t know if I know what you feel, I can’t know that,” I try to continue, hoping to be at least a little bit reassuring, “but I’d like to support you any way I can. Both of us would.”

“Absolutely,” Iwa echoes my affirmation.

Suga is biting at his lower lip again, closing his eyes and pushing his forehead into his forearms, drawing breaths through his teeth. His fingers move to grip at his hair.

He might be crying. Though I couldn’t be sure.

I breathe out heavily, though as silently as I can, and lean my head into Iwa’s chest. His hands come up to press patterns into my nape, cheek pressed against my head. Suddenly, I feel really exhausted, and I’m sure Iwa does too, but I must make sure of one more thing before I can even think of sleep.

“Please wake us if you need anything, okay?” I turn to Suga. “There’s water right by the couch. And there’s a fleece blanket right beside you.”

He only burrows deeper into his forearms, with an almost imperceptible whimper.

“Please, okay?”

I also feel like getting some water, though I don’t really want to leave Suga’s side, standing with Iwa’s help. I limp awkwardly towards the kitchen corner, filling another glass, taking a few sips and bringing it to Iwa.

He silently accepts the water, taking a sip and placing it on the night stand, moving to turn off the lights.

I’m itching for a proper hug now after these brief touches, but I also can’t bring myself to reach out to Iwa properly, seeing how stranded Suga must be feeling.

I feel guilty.

I gently squeeze Iwa’s bicep with a tired smile, though I can’t manage to bring myself to get up and under the covers.

Iwa lifts the blanket and lies down though, holding his arms open where I could fit right into his embrace.

I can’t help but squeeze my eyes shut against the tears that are starting to form again.

I really want to meld into Iwa’s arms, but I can’t.

I can’t.

There are palms enveloping my cheeks then, thumbs softly caressing over my cheekbones.

I blink my eyes open. Tears are falling free now, my breaths heavy but as silent as I can keep them. I half-shrug at Iwa. I can’t really bring myself to reciprocate. I try, though, gently squeezing at one of his wrists.

We stay like this for some time.

I can’t help but curl up at the foot of the bed where I can see Suga, afraid he might do something or go somewhere during the night. Or what’s left of this night, anyway.

Why does my heart hurt so much?

I fall into a light sleep on the edge of the bed, facing the couch, feeling further guilt at Iwa’s hand stroking my hair, hoping with all my might that Suga will be feeling better soon.


End file.
